She looked at him sharply. "We know that already."
"No…no, we don't." He turned one of the monitors toward her, displaying two windows—a photograph of bits of melted plastic and shards of metal; and some sort of schematic she recognized as a chemical breakdown.
"Ness realized right away that what happened with Clan Cedar wasn't normal. Slave traders don't use explosives. They want captives and loot, not a straight-up slaughter. They invade with guns, take what they want, and torch the rest. Now, biology and forensics aren't my strong suit, but technology and magic sure as hell are. Look at this. The explosive itself is fairly standard stuff, but if you look closely at this frame…" He zoomed in on the image, and pointed at something sparkly that was dusted over the surface of the plastic.
"What am I supposed to be seeing?"
"Semi-precious stones, Sara. Quartz crystal, selenite, and Peruvian fire opal. They were pulverized in the blast, but there were residual energetic traces. Magic. Someone put an enchantment on these bombs."
"Since when do slave traders use magic?"
"They don't. And we don't know what the purpose was—to amplify the explosion, maybe, or possibly to conceal the bombs themselves. The blasts weren't random; all four compass points and the center of the settlement were hit at once. Someone had to get in there and plant these things."
Sara sought one of the stools against the wall and sat down. "So you're telling me that the slave traders are working with sorcery now."
Frog shook his head. "I can't say for certain. We're trying to analyze the crystal powder and cross-reference it with the occult database to see if we can figure out what spells were used; that might help narrow it down. The selenite and opal are the key factors. Quartz crystal is usually used as either an amplifier or a conduit. We're also running them through the ecto-chrom to see if we can identify where they were mined. But the point is, there's never been a case of slave traders blowing things up like this, let alone using magic. It's possible it wasn't them at all."
"God," Sara breathed. "If it wasn't them, who could it have been?"
Frog smiled. "That's not my area," he replied. "I'm not an Agent."
"Have you told Ness about all of this?"
"Of course. I've been giving her daily reports."
Sara frowned at him. "Then why is this the first I've heard of it?"
"Because we wanted more concrete information before we sent you out there," Ness said from the lab doorway.
Sara turned around. "Sorry, what?"
The Director came over to where they were standing, and Sara could see similar thoughts to her own cross Ness's face as she looked down at the bones. Ness took a deep breath before continuing.
"As Frog said, there are far more questions about SA-5's death than there are answers, but I was reluctant to return to the scene until I knew for certain that it was necessary. I'm sending a team back to the site to find more evidence, and you're going with them to gather any information you can with your psychometric gift. Regardless of who was behind it we need to know more."
"Why didn't you send me the first time?" Sara had to ask.
Ness smiled, but it was a slightly bitter smile. "Have you ever been to the scene of a mass slaughter, Sara? It's nothing but ruins now, but two months ago there were almost fifty dead there, including Rowan. Ignoring for a moment what that would do to your empathy, can you honestly say you could have handled it?"
"No." Sara nodded tiredly. "You're right, I couldn't."
"There you go. Now, I need you ready to go at 1700 tomorrow; it should only be an overnight trip."
Ness started to go, but Sara asked, "Is SA-7 going?"
The Director paused. "No. He's on leave. And this mission is strictly need-to-know for now. I can't predict how he'd react hearing about it, and I'd prefer not to give him anything else to deal with. Understood?"
"Yes ma'am."
When she was gone, Frog commented, "He's going to be pissed if he's kept out of the loop on this one. I think she really should tell him what we've found."
Sara got up and returned the stool to its spot. "No," she said. "It's not a matter of leaving him out. If he knows there's something fishy about the raid, it might make things a lot worse."
"How?"
She stared down at the bones on the table, wondering who they had belonged to and where he or she was now. "It might give him hope."
Part Four
There were a great many things one simply did not talk about in Clan Yew. One didn’t question the Council; one didn’t protest the actions of the Guardians; one didn’t talk about the past at any length, or give any hint that one was unsatisfied or maladjusted. Some infractions would be ignored up to a point, but one never knew when there was someone listening or watching. The Guardians were an ever-present threat, a shadow over even the most innocent discussion.
And so, when Kir recognized one of the other refugees as a member of his old Clan, he said nothing, but their eyes met and she flashed him a grin that said she remembered him too. He wasn’t sure exactly who she was, but that didn’t matter. There was something comforting about being seen, and known, by someone who had known him, before.
It was another week before he managed to speak to her. Classes of Elves were kept mostly separate except for at Temple, when no one spoke to anyone. There wasn’t a rule against interacting with others, it was just difficult—they were all so busy from sunup to sundown that there was never any time for chat, and they only had a few free hours after the evening prostrations before the night bell signaled curfew.
She was a Gardener, so she spent her days tending the fruits and vegetables that fed the Clan. He was cloistered in the House of Healing. Their worlds normally didn’t intersect.
Chance brought her to him one sunny afternoon. He was following one of the Senior Healers around the House, doing whatever she instructed him to do, when the Gardener was brought in with a badly sprained ankle.
“Forgive me for taking up your time,” she said sheepishly. “I stepped in a hole.”
Kir started to laugh, but the Senior shot him a look, and he remembered that his sense of humor wasn’t really appreciated around here. Instead he cleared his throat and asked, “Would you like me to mend it for her, Senior?”
The Healer nodded. “I will be in the next room over when you are done.”
They were alone in the minor injury room, but he shot a look around to be safe before saying to her quietly, “I know you.”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m from Clan Cedar as well.” She then asked the standard, yet taboo question: “What do you remember?”
“About you? Not a lot. We were friends, weren’t we? Not close, but on good terms?”
“I think we were neighbors. I remember that you lived with three others and a little boy. Two of the women were amora, I think.”
Kir sought backwards and her words rang true; he had a watery mental image of a child, and of a cheerful house near the center of the village, long evenings spent lounging on the porch with one or more of the others curled up beside him. The thought filled him with the sudden ache of loss, and when he spoke again it was around a knot of pain in his throat. “Do you remember what happened?”
She bit her lip. “Not much. I remember fire…everything burned.”
“Yes…” Kir tried to busy himself examining her ankle so that if anyone came in there would be no suspicions aroused, but it was hard to concentrate. Fire…he had dreamed of fire, over and over again, and felt the ground beneath him tremble. He dreamed of shadowy figures moving in and out of his vision as he lay pinned beneath…something.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I’m sorry if I…”
She trailed off, but he understood. It was considered incredibly rude to trigger someone’s memories, with “rude” translated as “potentially dangerous and rather stupid.” He shook his head.
“I asked around about you,” she commented. “They said you’re…that you live with one of the Guardians.
Is that true?”
“Yes. Sethen.”
She went pale. “Oh…Goddess. I can’t imagine living with someone so…you’re not afraid of him?”
Kir wanted to leap to Sethen’s defense, to claim that he wasn’t like that, but…he wasn’t so sure, sometimes. Sethen seemed to be two entirely different people, and Kir could only love one of them. The other was a terrifying, steel-eyed stranger.
“What’s your name?” he asked, forcibly dragging his mind back to the task at hand before the Senior noticed how long such a simple healing was taking.
“Galea,” she replied. “At least, that’s what they tell me.”
“I’m Kir. All right, Galea, if you’ll just relax…”
She didn’t protest the change of subject; they both knew they were taking a risk with what they’d already said. She lay back on the table and closed her eyes, wincing as he pressed his hands over her injured ankle, assessing the sprain. He drew healing energy up and out through his hands, and soothed the swelling and the muscle strain.
There was relief on her face when he finished. She also looked impressed. “Thank you. You’re very powerful.”
He smiled. “You’re welcome. It’s why I’m here. Now, take it easy for the rest of the day—in fact…” He stood and pulled a round green token from his pocket, bearing his number and a 1. “Give this to your supervisor and you can have the afternoon off.” He fetched a bandage from the supply cabinet and wrapped her ankle securely; it was overkill, but he wanted to do something for her, out of gratitude for...being her.
She stood a bit unsteadily, testing out her foot without putting her full weight on it. On impulse, he hugged her, and she squeezed him back with a laugh before limping out of the room and back to her gardens.
Kir tried to keep his attention on his work for the rest of the afternoon, but having his memories sparked off made it increasingly impossible to focus. Luckily the Senior Healer kept him on mostly menial tasks like paperwork and cleaning, which he normally found somewhat insulting given his level of skill but today was a welcome respite.
The afternoon felt interminable, but at last he was free…as much as anyone here was ever free. He left the House of Healing for the Temple, hardly in the mood to spend an hour on his knees in prayer, and by the time he reached the main path he was outright brooding. He kept up a pleasant face, so that no one would think twice about him, but inside his mind and heart were roiling like stormclouds.
He caught sight of Sethen across the reflecting pool, and his first impulse was to smile as his heart leapt, but when he got a better look his smile faded and that rush of warmth went stone cold.
It wasn’t Sethen he was looking at, it was the Guardian of the Way, with a gun on his hip and a badge at his throat, his expression perfectly neutral but no emotion whatsoever in his eyes. Everything Kir found attractive about him—his strength, the purposeful grace of his body, the slender but capable hands that had given Kir so much comfort and pleasure—constricted and hid trembling the minute Kir saw the weapons. A gun sucked all the beauty out of Sethen and made him a creature of frost and fire…and Kir was very, very afraid of fire.
Worse still, he wasn’t alone. There were four other Guardians with him, and that could mean only one thing. They were on their way to arrest someone.
He should have kept walking to the Temple with everyone else, and pretended not to see the Guardians the way they all did. He should have kept his eyes averted.
He didn’t.
Kir sidestepped off the path, out of the gradually building stream of traffic headed toward the Temple, ducked behind a tree, listening to the clomp of boots and, after a moment, followed the Guardians into the village.
He kept out of sight, which was relatively easy with all the trees and statues that filled the empty spaces between rows of dwellings. If there was one thing he could say about Clan Yew, it was that they had an eye for beauty, even though all art and music must be dedicated to the Goddess and not to, say, personal adornment. The Elves themselves were severe and all alike, down to their inchlong hair; all their creativity was therefore funneled into sacred art and architecture, and it made Yew’s village a lovely place even though it was still small.
The Guardians stopped in front of one of the group dwellings that typically housed between three and five adults. There was plenty of space in the valley for homes, but keeping them in one place probably made them easier to spy on.
Kir held back a sigh. It was possible Sethen was right about his attitude.
Sethen detached himself from the company and strode up to the door, pounding on it.
There shouldn’t have been anyone home. Everyone was supposed to be on the way to the Temple—Kir had perhaps fifteen minutes before he was considered late, but assuming he wasn’t caught following the Guardians, the worst he would get was a demerit that would most likely lead to a sit-down with one of the Priestesses to lecture him on the evils of sloth and the virtues of punctuality. Nothing serious would happen to him until he accumulated three.
Well, that and Sethen might make him sleep on the couch.
When no answer came Sethen threw the door open, announcing their presence in a commanding voice: “The Guardians of the Way have come for Naia. Come out where we can see you!”
Sethen ducked into the house, and a moment later Kir heard a strangled cry. A thin, young woman walked out of the house, tears streaming from her eyes, her hands up in the air; behind her, Sethen held the barrel of his gun to the back of her head and followed her out into the rapidly cooling evening.
“On your knees,” Sethen told her, and she obeyed, sobbing quietly. “Naia, you are charged with a third level violation of the Way. You will be taken in for questioning by the High Inquisitor and your fate will be decided then. May the Goddess have mercy upon you if you are innocent, and may She strike you down swiftly in guilt.”
Third level…direct insurrection. What could one frail looking woman be up to that could bring such dire consequences? Kir dug his fingers into the bark of the tree he hid behind, wishing he could go to her and quiet her cries, give her some sort of comfort.
But fire flashed in the woman’s eyes, and she screamed, “You all have blood on your hands! No Goddess I worship would ever do this! One day they’ll come for you too!” She twisted around to face Sethen. “I know what you are! I know! Listen! Listen!”
She started to bolt, panic overtaking her, but Sethen whipped his gun around and struck her in the back of her head.
Naia toppled over, blood oozing from the gash in her skull, and Sethen stood over her impassively. He inclined his chin at one of the other Guardians, who knelt by the woman and checked for a pulse, then nodded up at Sethen.
“Take her,” Sethen said. “Use the back path so you aren’t seen.”
Two of the Guardians picked the unconscious, bleeding woman up, and a third pulled a black fabric bag over her head while the fourth bound her hands. Kir heard a muffled groan from beneath the bag, and let out the breath he’d been holding since she’d started screaming. She was alive, at least, for now.
Kir held onto the tree, shaking violently and fighting down nausea, as the Guardians passed by him the way they had come. Sethen was last, and his eyes were fastened on the cobbled path…
…but just as he reached the tree, Sethen looked up and met Kir’s eyes directly.
Kir stared back at him, his heart stopping. He didn’t even recognize his lover this way—would Sethen call the others back? Was Kir next to be hauled through the Red Door at the back of the Temple?
Something changed in Sethen’s eyes, their dispassion giving way for just a second to something else…Kir barely saw it before it was walled away again, and the Guardian resolutely turned his head and continued walking as if he’d never seen the Healer.
Nearly weak with gratitude at the reprieve, Kir slipped back through the trees and all but ran to the Temple, making it through the doors just before they were closed and the bell rang to signal th
e first prostration.
He was glad to fall to his knees, and though there was no way he could give the prayers they all recited their due attention, he would simply have to ask the Goddess’s forgiveness later on his own, for his mind was full of his lover’s eyes, and they were full of shame.
Part Five
In the end, it only took one thing to get Jason to play again: a cardboard box.
The second full day of his leave he requisitioned a stack of boxes and shoved them into the bedroom, then fetched a roll of tape and a black marker—the same ones he’d used moving in a year ago.
He folded the topmost box together and taped the bottom, then stood with his arms crossed for a minute, deciding where to start.
The Agency, Volume II Page 24